Secret
by alanwolfmoon
Summary: House's pain is getting worse and he doesn't want Wilson to know. But how long can he hide it?


House grimaced, as he slowly sat up in bed, gingerly lifting the blankets off his bad leg.

Wilson didn't stir, on the bed beside him, and House was glad of it.

Wilson didn't need to see this.

He slid his hand under his knee, and bit his lip, as he slowly started to turn his body.

His right ankle caught in the sheets, and he stopped, clenching his teeth, leaning forwards over the treacherous limb, making a conscious effort to control his breathing, so as not to wake his friend, as his stomach lurched and his vision swum in front of him.

He finally managed to swivel around, so that his legs were off the bed, and his left foot resting on the floor.

Wilson snuffled a little in his sleep.

House used both hands to slowly ease his right foot down.

His toes touched the cool wooden floorboards, and he immediately drew in a sharp breath, to keep himself from crying out.

He gritted his teeth, and used his hands to support the ruined limb, as he glared up at the ceiling, breathing heavily, as his heart pounded in his chest.

Wilson yawned, and shifted over into the warm space House had left on the bed.

House looked at his friend, for a moment, then at the clock.

It was five in the morning.

The alarm would go off in an hour, Wilson would hit the snooze button once, and then get up a moment before the second alarm went off.

As always.

House swallowed, took a breath, and held it, as he eased his bad leg to the floor again.

The same jolting, aching, hot-acid sensations ran through his thigh, but just a little less that time.

It was as good as it was going to get, and he knew if he didn't get up and start working the leg, he wouldn't even be able to put up a facade of being okay.

He gripped his cane, and pushed himself stiffly to his feet.

He didn't even bother trying to support his weight on his bad leg, just hopped out into the livingroom, as quietly as he could, using tables and doorways and walls to hold himself up, making it to within grabbing distance of the desk before the spasms really started.

He'd wanted to make it to the couch, but it wasn't to be. He gripped the rolling desk chair, and started to pull it out, but then had to let go and lean on the desk with both hands, as the ruined muscles started to clench, and didn't let go.

Hot tears dripped onto his hands, as he stood, toes of his right foot just barely touching the floor. This wasn't going to work. There was no way he was going to be able to walk today. He wasn't even sure he could make it to the rolling chair, a step away from where he was standing.

But he did. Of course.

He always did.

He always made it, he always managed to hide it.

He always managed to keep it tucked away in a cupboard of their lives that they never opened.

He made it to the chair, and scooted himself over to the closet, until he could pull out the folding wheelchair from behind the coats, the one from when he had had that bet with Cuddy. The one from the infarction, though much more comfortable and well suited to his frame, would stay right where it was, tucked behind the bag of golf clubs and canes.

This was just for today. It didn't matter if his butt hurt.

It was just for today.

He sort of played bumper cars with the rolling chair until he got it over to the desk again, and then he stopped, and sighed, hearing the alarm go off in their bedroom.

Just in time.

He had made it, just in time.

They wouldn't have to think about it, because he had made it.

Wilson rolled his eyes, as he came out into the kitchen, and saw House sitting in the wheelchair with a bowl of cereal, "another bet with Cuddy?" he asked, as he got out a bowl for himself.

House nodded, playing their game, though Wilson was playing it a little more harshly than usual, "trying to get the elevators equipped with wide-screen TV's."

Wilson snorted, pouring his cereal, "right. What's it really about?"

House looked at him, for a moment.

That... wasn't their game.

Wilson was supposed to ask, House was supposed to give a stupid lie, and Wilson was supposed to let it rest.

He wasn't supposed to push.

That was against the point of a game meant to avoid thinking about the truth.

House looked down at his cereal, realizing.

Wilson really didn't know.

Or didn't believe.

House tightened his hand a little on his spoon, and spoke, evenly and lightly, "parking space issues, same as last time. Some new dermatologist with CP."

Wilson nodded, absently, and turned back to his cereal.

House dumped the rest of his in the sink, finding that his appetite, limited to begin with, had suddenly disappeared entirely.

House asked Wilson to take the wheelchair down the front steps, which Wilson did, rolling his eyes.

House nodded to him, leaning against the doorway and his cane and told him he'd meet the younger doctor in the car.

Wilson nodded.

It took him the forty-five minutes it took Wilson to shower and get dressed to get down the steps and into the car.

There were four steps.

The sidewalk was three feet wide.

He threw up.

Twice.

By the time he was sitting in the passenger seat, the hated, treacherous wetness was dripping off his chin again.

He wiped his face, when Wilson opened the door.

"Upset stomach?" asked Wilson, getting in the drivers' side, "you wanna stay home today?"

House shook his head, and looked out the window, wiping his eyes again, as his quadracepts muscles tried to tear themself free of his femur.

He couldn't keep himself from gripping the thigh, hard, with his right hand.

He felt like he was going to be sick again, though he didn't really have anything left to throw up.

They were almost to the hospital, when he grabbed at Wilson's arm, hurriedly, "stop. Pull over."

Wilson did, into a parking lot, and House shoved the door open, dragged himself and his leg out of the car, and started to retch.

Wilson was there, then, holding him up.

Tears were on his face again, but it was okay, Wilson would blame them on the vomiting.

"You should stay home."

House shook his head, as he gagged, hand clenching in Wilson's shirt, as the younger doctor helped him sit on the edge of the seat.

His vision had gone all wrong again, and there was a rushing sound in his ears, as he continued to retch.

Thank god he was throwing up.

He was crying hard, and knew it wouldn't stop soon.

He wasn't bringing anything up, and Wilson had knelt in front of him, and he was half lying against his friend's chest, as Wilson held him up.

He doesn't understand how Wilson can't see it, that he's at at least an eight, and about to hit a nine.

But he's glad.

He tells himself that he's glad, that Wilson doesn't have to know.

That he can spare Wilson the pain of his pain.

But really... it hurts.

He's angry that Wilson's denial is so strong that he's refusing to let himself even think that this might not be just a bad stomach bug.

But... more than that.

It just really hurts.

Eventually, the spasm eases, not all the way, but enough that his vision is no longer gray, and he can hear what Wilson is saying to him.

He swallows, and sits up, and wipes his mouth on his sleeve, and his face with his hand.

Wilson watches him, crouched on the pavement in front of his friend and lover and so much more.

"Are you alright? Should I drive you home?"

House shakes his head, and waves his hand wearily at Wilson, "nah. Cuddy'll be mad if I miss another day of work. Doubt she'll believe I'm actually sick."

Wilson chuckles, like he's supposed to, and goes around to the drivers side, leaving House with a few moments to lift his leg back into the car without being watched.

That's good, because he cries again, a little, as he does.

He wipes his face, and they drive to the hospital, and Wilson gets out the wheelchair and rolls his eyes as he does so, and they both go to work, and House doesn't say a thing.

Why would he?

He'd much rather spare Wilson that distress.

It doesn't matter that he's feeling pukey again, as the spasm's strength increases, or that his hands are shaking, hard, on the smooth metal grips of the wheelchair's wheels.

Foreman and Chase roll their eyes, as he rolls in.

"Another parking space thief?"

House grins at them, and they roll their eyes again, and Chase goes to write a case on the board.

His thigh spasms, just as the two younger doctors look at him for input, and he's momentarily unable to answer, and he knows they can tell something is wrong.

"It's lupus," he spits out, because he really wasn't paying attention to the discussion, and glancing at the board it's the first thing that comes to mind.

They leave without comment.

He's starting to feel like he's going to throw up again, and his hands are shaking so bad he can't move himself in the wheelchair.

All he can do is grip his thigh as gingerly as he can, trying to catch his breath. He feels like he's going to pass out, and he tries to lean forward, but his hip locks up, and he can't stop himself from whimpering, quietly, as he tries to straighten back up. He can't, though, he can't straighten, and he can't lean more forward, and he's stuck sort of hunched over, and it just hurts so bad that he's crying again, and....

* * *

House groaned. There were three pairs of shoes, and one pair of knees. The knees were covered in slacks, so they were probably Foreman or Taub... they were too large for Ta

* * *

Wilson sighs, as he slips into bed beside his friend, after letting Foreman out, sliding an arm around his friend's waist. The older doctor is awake, though he's pretending to be asleep. Wilson spreads a hand out over House's chest, feeling the thumping of his heart, as it pumped more rapidly than it should have.

Wilson can tell his friend is losing weight, at a rate that is rather alarming. He doesn't know why. He knows House has been unable to keep food down some of the time, but is pretty sure that it's a medical issue, not on purpose. He hasn't brought himself to ask what's causing it. He knows House has been walking slower, has been resting more, often dressed more warmly than was really called for, or wrapped in a blanket. He doesn't want to know why.

House stirs, a little, shivering. Wilson gently wraps a blanket over his long, thin frame. He's so boney, and so thin, and this is the third time he's passed out, and Wilson is really scared that something is badly wrong. Wilson can't help himself, he gathers his friend's upper body into a close embrace. House grunts a little, into Wilson's shoulder, but says nothing. He's trembling in Wilson's arms, and Wilson holds him closer, hoping that he's just cold and shivering, that a warm friend and several blankets will ease the shivers wracking his friend's body. They don't, and House keeps shivering against him, pretending to be asleep until Wilson loses the battle against unconsciousness.

When Wilson wakes, he's spooned up against House's body, his face buried between his friend's shoulder blades. He can feel the vertebra pressing against his nose, and it kind of scares him. He sits up, and looks his now truly sleeping friend over. He's lost so much weight since he got back from Mayfield. He's dangerously thin now, and thinking about it, it isn't at all strange that he gets cold easily. He has almost no body fat left. Thinking of this, Wilson tucks the layers of blankets in around his friend, and gets out of bed.

* * *

House retches into the pillow. That was the first thing he was aware of, when he woke, was that he was retching. Retching, and shivering, rather violently. Then, as the retching subsided for a moment, the overwhelming, hot-acid pain. He tries to stay silent, but a sound escapes him, a soft gasp, and a little, weak whimper.

Wilson isn't in the bed, which meant he was up, which meant he could come in at any time. This isn't good. This will take hours of working it to get the leg to calm down, he can't do that if Wilson is already awake, Wilson will notice. He sits up, slowly, trying to assess how bad it would be, but his hip locks up, and he falls back against the pillows, gritting his teeth, but then his stomach rebels again, and he starts to retch.

He barely registers Wilson coming in, barely notices the damp, calming cloth wiping gently at the back of his neck. The retching subsides, again, and he lays there, trembling. Wilson gently pulls off his shirt, and starts running the cloth over his back.

House tries to keep Wilson from seeing that he was crying, but Wilson gently cups the side of his face, and turns it, and wipes the tears away, so it obviously didn't work. Wilson hasn't asked him what's going on, House assumes he's figured it out.

Wilson holds him up, with an arm across his back, and House lets his chin rest on his friend's shoulder, and lets his friend hold him, and wipe him down, and wash the stink of pain-sweat off his body.

"House," Wilson says, quietly, whispering into his ear, "are you dying?"

House frowns, and answers, "no."

"You weight over fifty pounds less than you should. Than you ever have before."

House closes his eyes, "I'm not dying. I'm... "

He's not going to tell Wilson. He's not going to make his friend worry like that, and he's definitely not going to tell Wilson that he's tried pretty much everything out there... that the pain is only getting worse, and there's nothing they can do.

He's not going to tell his friend that he really might be dying, of just the unrelenting pain.

Wilson sits on the bed, and pulls the layers of blankets up around him. He can't quite suppress a gasp of pain, when Wilson shifts his bad leg. He's trembling and it hurts, and he's going to throw up, except he hasn't eaten anything. A spasm seizes his thigh, and he cries out in anguish and agony.

He feels himself almost passing out, and crying again, and Wilson holding him tightly, which shifts his bad leg further. He feels his throat burn as he screams, over, and over, and over, body spasming against his will, scrabbling, trying desperately to escape the pain.

Wilson holds him, holds him gently, holds him close, holds him until the ungodly spasm passes, and leaves him gasping and crying and shuddering. He's a mess, and Wilson gently cleans his face with the washcloth again.

He curls his hand in the sheets, and tries to calm down, tries to let Wilson help him, tries to stop trembling. The pain is still bad, though, and he can't rest. He ends up lying there, his head in Wilson's lap, the younger doctor gently stroking his hair, occasionally patting his forehead with the washcloth. He's too tired to glare, too tired to yell. He closes his eyes, and tries to will away the nausea and the pain.

He lets Wilson clean him up again, he lets his friend take care of him. He tries to rest, but he just can't, the pain is still too bad. He shivers, because he's cold, and Wilson pulls the blankets over, him, smoothing them out with gentle hands.

He passes out, with a washcloth gently patting the sweat off his brow.

When he wakes up, he's alone in the bed, and he stinks. The pain isn't so bad, now, he can at least move around. He hopes this respite will last long enough for him to take a shower. He sits up, and moves his bad leg off the bed, grimacing when the ball of his foot touches the hardwood floor, and the stiff muscles clench in painful protest. He's immeasurably grateful that Wilson has put the wheelchair by the side of the bed–the low one, the one that's easy to get in and out of, the one that's from the infarction.

But he doesn't care when it's from right now, he just cares that he can get into it, and move his own ass to the bathroom. He sees Wilson, asleep on the couch, and wonders why Wilson felt the need to sleep out there, when they've been sleeping in the same bed for months.

He moves into the bathroom, and leans in, and turns on the shower, stoppering the drain. He lifts his ass onto the side of the bathtub, and pulls himself up on the bar Wilson installed when they moved in, untying the drawstring of his pants and letting them fall to the floor.

He awkwardly pulls his leg out of the pants, and then sits down, kicking them across the room with his good leg. He swivels, putting his bad leg into the tub, and then following with his good one. He grabs the other bar, the one on the wall inside the tub, and lowers his ass down to join his feet in the water. He's shivering already, and the water isn't even up to his ankles yet, is still creeping up his feet.

The door opens, and a sleepy Wilson comes in, frowning at him, "are you okay?"

"Yeah. I stink."

Wilson nods, and walks out, his bare feet quietly slapping against the tile floor. House turns back to the tub, and sighs, glaring down at the disgusting view. His bad thigh is gnarled and scarred, and the whole right leg is atrophied and thin, all tendon and bone and wasted muscle. His left is no better, it's bizarrely muscular, and there's no fat to soften the sharp, heavily defined angles. He sighs, and closes his eyes, leaning back against the cold ceramic tub to wait for the water to rise.

The water is blissfully hot, just cool enough to not scald him. He turns his head, resting it against the cold tiled wall beside the tub. When he opens his eyes, Wilson is there, frowning at him. House blinks, and starts to sit up, but Wilson pushes his shoulders back against the wall.

House stares at his friend, "why are you in here?"

"I... wanted to check on you, you'd been here for a while."

House shakes his head, "I didn't fall asleep."

"Yes you did, but that's besides the point. You want me to leave?"

"Yes."

Wilson nods, and reluctantly starts to leave the room. House watches him go, and rests his head back against the wall. The water is cold, and his leg, which was blissfully sort of relaxed before he fell asleep, is now more cramped and stiff than when he got into the tub in the first place.

He lets the water out, grimacing as he leans over his bad leg. Then he runs the water for a while, until it warms up, and he can refill the tub with hot water. He does so, and then sits, and waits for the warmth to soothe the angry, damaged muscles.

It does, some, but he shouldn't have fallen asleep. Too long in one position, and the cold water; his leg isn't calming down. He tries to massage it into submission, but he can't, he can barely touch it, it's so sore.

He lies there for a while, hoping that just the heat will help, but it doesn't. He lies there until the water starts to cool down again, and he realizes this isn't working. He also realizes that he can't get out of the tub by himself–he can barely touch his bad leg, moving it will be a whole nother magnitude of pain.

"Wilson!"

Running footsteps approach, Wilson's face appears in the doorway, and he calls out, sounding frantic, "are you alright?"

"No!" he snaps, "I'm not alright. I can't get out of the goddamned bathtub!"

Wilson sighs, and walks into the bathroom, kneeling by the side of the tub, carefully avoiding a small puddle next to the bathmat, "what's wrong?"

House looks at him wearily, "can't move it. Can't _touch_ it."

"Then... how do you want to do this."

"I don't."

"Well... you can't stay in there forever."

"I know."

Wilson reaches out a hand, and House looks at it for a while, before nodding, and letting Wilson wrap his arms around his ribcage, heaving upwards. House grabs the shower bar, and Wilson's shirt, but he can't hold on, because the pain gets way too bad way too fast, and it's all he can do to not pass out.

They get to the point where his ass is on the side of the tub, but he can't move any more than that. His face is buried in Wilson's shoulder, and he's shaking all over, and he can't catch his breath.

Wilson rubs his back for a while, and he tries to keep his breath from hitching like it is, and tries to maintain some amount of muscle tension, instead of lying limp against his friend. It isn't working, and it's all he can do to stop himself from sobbing audibly.

Wilson tries to shift him a little, so they're in a less awkward position, but his leg gets moved a little bit, and he screams, and starts to sob into Wilson's shoulder. Everything is black and swimmy, and he really doesn't know what's going on after that.

* * *

He opens his eyes, and whimpers, hand going to his leg, but it gets tangled halfway there, and doesn't make it. He looks down, and sees wires and IVs and a pulse-ox, and a hospital robe. He frowns, and untangles his hand from all the wires and tubes, and reaches down with both hands to shift his bad leg into a more comfortable position.

The remarkable thing is that he can find one. Because his leg doesn't hurt. In fact, his leg doesn't feel like much of anything. He runs his fingers along his spine, and sure enough, there's a spinal catheter taped to his back, ready to receive medication. He sighs, and rests his head back in the pillows. He's so weak he's pretty sure he can't sit up, but the pain is incredibly, blissfully, and strangely gone.

There's a book on the bed next to him, so he picks it up. It's one of Wilson's stupid novels, but he doesn't really have the energy to focus on anything more taxing than this. He flips through it, but it's boring and stupid, and the characters are idiots, so he puts it back down.

The door slides open, and Wilson comes in, looking tired and like he hasn't gotten much sleep lately. House realizes he probably hasn't, and feels an unfamiliar stab of guilt in his chest. He didn't want this whole thing to inconvenience his friend. He wanted to keep it his own little hell, and not have to let it spill over into Wilson's life.

Wilson smiles, when he sees that House is awake. House isn't sure if he quite manages to smile back, but he does give it some effort, and Wilson's reaction seems to be a good one... so he probably managed despite his fatigue.

"We gave you a spinal block."

House nods, tiredly, "I noticed. Can I have some water?"

Wilson helps him sit up, and holds a cup of water to his mouth while he drinks. The rim of the cup bumps against the oxygen cannula going around his face. He finishes, and Wilson gently lowers him back against the head of the bed, "is it any better?"

House nods again, "yeah. Too bad I can't move my lower body."

Wilson sighs, but doesn't stop smiling, "I know it's not a permanent solution, but... the pain was stressing out your heart—and the rest of you."

House closes his eyes, because he's so tired he can barely keep them open, "talk later?"

"Sure. Get some rest, okay?"

House nods, but then he reaches out, and pulls on Wilson's hand as Wilson starts to turn away to sit in the chair. He opens his eyes, "hey. Where are you going?"

Wilson blinks, but smiles, and climbs into the bed, "I didn't want to hurt you."

"Lie down."

Wilson does, and House awkwardly rolls over, curling up and resting his head on Wilson's chest. The lines get tangled some, and the oxygen cannula gets pulled aside, but he doesn't care. Wilson is warm, and familiar, and he can relax close against his friend for the first time in months.

He suddenly starts to tremble, and he doesn't understand why. It doesn't hurt anymore, but he still feels like he's going to cry, and throw up, and pass out, all at the same time. Wilson doesn't seem nearly as confused, just starts gently combing his fingers through House's hair. House squeezes his eyes shut, and tries to hold back the tears, his breath hitching over and over, as he suppresses the urge to sob and vomit.

Wilson pulls the oxygen cannula back into place, as the tears that House can't stop start to spill over. House raises his head, and looks at his friend, "what's going on?"

Wilson's expression is slightly pained, but at the same time endeared, as he cups the side of House's tear-stained face. House stares at him, and he's a little blurry, and no, dammit, he's _not_ gonna cry. Except he's already crying. He's crying, and he's almost sobbing, and the only things about the situation he understands are Wilson down there looking up at him, and Wilson's hand on his face, and Wilson's thumb gently moving back and forth over his cheekbone.

"Shaking is a common side effect of an epidural pain block," says Wilson, quietly, "so is nausea. You're okay."

House doesn't quite believe him, but he probably should, because god knows Wilson's had to deal with patients in pain like this before, and Bonnie had an epidural the time she miscarried, so Wilson was there for that. He decides to trust wilson on this, and manages to calm down a little. The shaking doesn't stop, but the nausea does ease, enough that he can get to sleep.

* * *

When he wakes up, he's aware that there's somebody else in the room besides him and Wilson, but he can't turn over to see who, because Wilson is holding him down on the bed, on his side, knees drawn up.

He can't feel it, but by the situation and the way Wilson is holding him still and curled, he knows someone is doing something with the spinal catheter. He looks up at Wilson, and Wilson smiles down at him, "administering another dose. No big deal."

House nods, and rests his head back down into the pillow, closing his eyes. Wilson's hand rested on his shoulder, and he twitched the corner of his mouth up in a small smile. He was still ridiculously weak, but he was at least a little bit less tired.

How long had he slept? He didn't know, there weren't windows in the room, and he wasn't wearing a watch. He opens his eyes, and looks at Wilson's wrists–there was a watch on the right one. It's five PM. Shit. It had been nighttime when he had fallen asleep, the lights had been turned down in the hallway and his room.

He looks up at his friend, and frowns, because his heart feels funny, beating hard and painful in his chest, "Wilson."

"You shouldn't talk, just hang out another minute or so, okay?"

"Heart feels funny. Palpitations..."

Wilson's hands stay where they are, but House sees him move slightly, nodding to the other person. After a moment, Wilson lets go, and helps House uncurl his legs. The other person comes around from the other side of the bed, and House sees that it's Cuddy, and she looks worried.

By the time they get an EKG machine in, the palpitations have stopped, but he still feels a little weird, and his chest hurts. He lays against the raised head of the bed, and stays still while Cuddy applies the leads. She seems to be a little unnerved that he doesn't comment on the angle, which is showing off her boobs, so he musters up a suggestive leer. He knows from her expression that he probably just looks scared.

The EKG doesn't look bad, but he's got a slight arrhythmia, and that isn't a good sign. They'll have to do more tests to find out the cause, and he really isn't looking forward to that. He wonders which they'll suggest first, a blood panel or an ultrasound? Or maybe a stress test...Probably a blood panel, they can run that while doing the other two. No need for a CT or MRI yet.

"House?"

He looks at the other two, "what?"

"What first?"

He smiles, glad they asked, and saved him the trouble of hijacking his own medical treatment. Then he grimaces as the palpitations start again. He raises a hand to his chest, pressing his palm against his sternum. He can his ribs on either side, and his skin has the bagginess of someone who's lost a great deal of weight in a short amount of time.

He looks down at himself, and starts to realize just how much weight he's lost. He's been too sick to really pay attention. And then it clicks. He sighs, and looks at Cuddy and Wilson, "nothing."

They both frown, and Wilson looks quite alarmed, "you're not...giving up?"

"Giving up? No. I just know what it is. I've lost thirty pounds in the last two months. Lack of nutrition and loss of muscle mass. Involuntary anorexia."

Cuddy looks surprised, and checks his chart, probably checking how much weight he has lost. Wilson sighs, and looks like he's going to cry, then pulls House into a hug. House tries to pull away, not least of which because Wilson's getting the EKG glue all over his shirt, but Wilson doesn't seem to care.

"The spinal cath isn't a permanent solution," says Cuddy, after Wilson has let go.

House doesn't respond to her. All he does is stare at Wilson, who is crying openly now. Then House looks at Cuddy, "I know. There isn't a permanent solution. There isn't a solution. There isn't anything else."

"You just said you weren't giving up," says Cuddy, looking slightly alarmed.

House looks at her, and smiles tiredly, then looks back at Wilson, "I'm not. I said there isn't anything else, not there isn't anything."

Cuddy frowns, "what else are you talking about?"

House looks at her, because he knows he doesn't want to watch Wilson's reaction, "My body can't deal with it anymore. The pain has to stop." She looks at Wilson, and House closes his eyes. He'll let them smooth it all out. He'll let them have the time to figure out the possibilities he's thought of, whether amputation or paralysis of the nerves–on purpose paralysis. Right now, he's tired again, and he just wants to sleep.

He grunts, slightly, and opens his eyes, as Wilson grips his hand, and pulls it upwards towards his face, "if you kiss my hand, I'm going to hit you."

Wilson chuckles a little, "I just wanted to hold on to you."

"I'm not exactly going anywhere."

"You don't know that for sure," says Wilson, quietly.

House looks at him, and gives him a tired smile, "I know."

He closes his eyes with just a short glance at Cuddy. He doesn't register the fact that she's crying, just a little bit. All he really registers is Wilson's hands around his.

It's finally out in the open, and he can finally rest, knowing he doesn't have to fight to keep it hidden anymore.


End file.
